EPILOGUE.

"Yes, that is the story," said Otway, sorting back the documents into his dispatch-case.

"Is it quite all the story, sir?" asked Polkinghorne, breaking the silence that followed its close.

Otway frowned, re-sorted the last three or four papers, laid them in the case and closed it with a couple of snaps.

"That's all," he answered, "that exists for publication. That is, unless you want a moral. I can give you that, all right: and if you have any use for it you may apply it to this blasted War. As I see it, the more you beat Fritz by becoming like him, the more he has won. You may ride through his gates under an Arch of Triumph; but if he or his ghost sits on your saddle-bow, what's the use? You have demeaned yourself to him; you cannot shake him off, for his claws hook in you, and through the farther gate of Judgment you ride on, inseparables condemned.

"—And, oh, by the by! I am taking my leave next Wednesday. Sammy has been nosing suspiciously, these five days, around a wine-case which on the 22nd he shall have the honour of opening. It contains, if our friend the Transport Officer hasn't been beforehand with you, some Pommery 1900; with which you are to do your best. For it turns out that, with luck, I am to be married on that day. No flowers, by special request."

Otway re-opened the dispatch-case and again made sure of his last two exhibits, which he had not exhibited. The first was a note, folded three-corner-wise, which ran:

"Dear Roddy—Your last word to me was that you had no patience with people so clever that they lacked sense to come out of the rain. Well, I am willing to learn that silly skill, if you remain willing to teach me.—Yours,"
"CONSTANTIA."

The second of these exhibits, not exhibited, was a creased envelope containing the shredded petals of a rose.

THE END.